‘I do not understand you,’ I said.
‘When I am given certain figures,’ he replied, ‘the process of addition is instantaneous and sure. So, when I know of established incidents relating to a matter, they group themselves in my mind in such a manner as to reveal to me their meaning. You are grieved that your family must bear the shame of this crime of which Dr Haslam stands charged, that you can discover no trace of him. May I help you?’
‘Help me, indeed!’ I replied, earnestly. ‘From the facts, as you have read them, would you say that he is dead?’
‘Not altogether from the facts as I read them,’ Conners replied, ‘but from the facts not to be denied, he is dead without doubt. He was a man of character, made through a series of years, and intimately known to the best people of his vicinity; guilty or not of this crime, he was never a man to flee. He was a physician, and entirely sane – a man who would eagerly seek, rather than avoid, an explanation of any act he might commit. Whatever his connection with this murder, he would have remained to justify or deny it.’
‘That was, in fact, his character,’ I replied, eagerly.
‘Even though he had fled, his nature suddenly changed, or his mind suffering from a sudden shock,’ continued Conners, ‘he would have surrendered himself later to the authorities. He is dead, or detained in some spot against his will. Since the latter theory is scarcely tenable, the conviction is certain that he is dead.’
‘You believe, then, that he has made away with himself?’ I asked.
‘It is the first thing that I doubted,’ answered Conners, slowly, ‘and in your interest I hastened to investigate the matter. I found the task a light one. Why should Dr Haslam flee from his house to make away with himself? He had drugs about him with which he might have made a painless end. The facts as stated were hard to reconcile. Here was a man incapable of murder, who does murder; a man incapable of flight, who flees; a man with every healthy conviction against suicide, drowning himself in the river or ocean – a method of death which required a journey of several miles in night attire through busy thoroughfares or along lighted avenues, against a simpler method of drug or pistol, thus reflecting upon the logic of his whole lifetime. The woman is slain by a gunshot, in the upper story of your kinsman’s dwelling; Dr Sadler is below stairs with the butler, and every inmate of the house but the slayer and his victim is positively accounted for as absent from the scene; and Dr Haslam disappears at that instant, as is stated, since which time no trace of him is seen.’
‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘and Dr Sadler saw him at the moment following the commission of his crime.’
‘The doctor said so,’ returned Conners, significantly. ‘It seems to have occurred to no one to doubt his statement. The police are not usually so credulous.’
I made an involuntary movement under the influence of the suggestion, the blood mounting to my cheek; then I experienced as quickly a revulsion of feeling.
‘Sadler is treacherous enough and possibly a liar, but that has little bearing here,’ I responded, gloomily. ‘The woman is dead, Dr Haslam gone – doubtless dead, also, as you have stated. I can conceive of no possible solution of the matter in view of what we know, other than the conclusion of the police. Sane or mad, Dr Haslam can never speak in explanation, and, since every witness who can possibly know of the matter has been fully heard, the case is closed to us.’
‘I confess that it is confusing, in the matter of proof,’ replied Conners, ‘but let us investigate. I already know everything that the reporters can tell us. I should like to know something on my own account.’
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Let us visit Dr Sadler, and, if he will permit, inspect the premises.’
‘Surely,’ I replied. ‘Sadler does not love me, and may resent our coming, but we will go.’
‘Let him resent it,’ answered Conners, with a peculiar smile. ‘I think myself that he will do so.’
‘When shall we go?’ I asked.
He laughed as he threw aside his studio-jacket.
‘Now,’ he answered.
I was silent during our ride to Banning Street, but Conners talked cheerfully of many things. He had seemingly studied the matter, and, having arrived at some conclusion, sought to cheer me as best he could until we reached the place. In spite of this, my spirits fell, and I was not reassured as we mounted the steps of the now depressing house with its chill air and its closed shutters. Dr Sadler had done nothing to lighten the gloom which hung over it; the blinds were drawn even at the back windows, and the gate, hung to the new stone of the great post, was shut and bolted.
Our ring was answered by the familiar face of Edward Gray. The new master had evidently retained him. He ushered us into the hall, and then into the parlour. I told him to announce me and a friend.
In a few minutes Sadler entered the room, looking with some surprise at my companion, but greeting me with an attempt at warmth. He made inquiry as to the health of Mrs Barrister and my wife; he had heard of our departure, and expressed his pleasure at our return. Having said so much, he waited to learn my business, eying Conners from under his flabby lids and evidently suspecting an attorney. I could see that he was preparing to meet a declaration of war which might involve some question of property. The subject of the crime with him had become a matter of the past.
He heard my opening statement with evident relief, for his manner assumed an unusual frankness.
‘Mr Conners, Doctor, is my friend,’ I said. ‘I have told him of the depression under which we continue to labour, and how much Mrs Barrister and my wife have suffered. He is good enough to sympathize with me. He suggested that by this time you might have something to offer in the way of news. I have, therefore, ventured to bring him with me to visit you.’
‘He is very welcome, as you are,’ was the unexpected answer, ‘but, alas! I have learned nothing. The police were diligent enough at first, and now know that there is really nothing to discover but the remains of our unfortunate relative. Therefore, they seem to have lost interest in the matter.’
‘You were, of course, much distressed by the occurrence, Doctor?’ said Conners.
‘Naturally, sir,’ replied the young man.
‘Where were you when the gun was fired?’
‘I was in the lower hall, with Edward Gray, the butler. He can testify to that, and has done so.
Mrs Sands entered from the rear of the house and I asked her to go to the study for a book. She met Dr Haslam there as he came from his apartments. He had evidently heard her step in the hall and, prepared for the fateful moment, stood waiting. He killed her ruthlessly. At the noise of the report I ran upstairs to find her dead. The explosion seemed to shake the house, and the butler was too frightened to accompany me. Two officers were outside, and heard it also. Their ring at the door prevented Gray from following me.’
‘Did you ask Gray to remain below?’
The young man smiled.
‘Why, yes. I saw how he trembled, and my first thought was of burglars. It occurred to me that someone should remain below.’
‘There were other servants?’
The doctor looked annoyed. He made no reply.
‘The butler was spared the terrifying sight which afflicted you,’ continued Conners, dryly. ‘May we look over the house, Doctor? The police have done that thoroughly, of course, but I fancy you could tell us graphically of the matter, upon the very scene.’
I saw that Sadler now suspected the detective in my companion, and his eyes glittered balefully. The hatred he had always felt for me showed in every line of his face. But apparently he had nothing to conceal, and, wishing to render every assistance in his power to the authorities, he speedily rose to comply with our request.
‘I remember it very graphically, at all events,’ he replied. ‘Come, gentlemen.’
We followed him up the stairs and into the room w
here the murder had taken place. It was darkened, but he stepped to the window and pulled up the shade.
‘There is a stain beneath that rug near you,’ he said. ‘We have been unable to remove it, even with acids. I shall have to have a section of the floor taken up. It is not a pleasant thing to see.’
Conners looked about the chamber critically.
‘Where was the gun found?’
‘Here,’ and the doctor indicated the spot at the corner of the mantel.
‘How did the piece of brass wire become attached to the stock, which the officers noticed when they first entered the room?’
‘Which officer noticed it?’ asked Sadler.
‘I believe it was Flynn who spoke of it. You were present at the inquest?’
Sadler smiled.
‘This is the first I have heard of it,’ he said.
‘Of the wire?’
‘No; of the fact that it was noticed. It was a loop used to hold back a refractory shutter yonder, and it must have fallen from the frame about the gun when Dr Haslam placed it upon the floor. It was not a very gentle deed which he had just perpetrated, and his actions were not studied. The matter has no significance.’
‘Do you think that Dr Haslam was concealed – ?’
‘Concealed?’ The young man answered quickly, with his note of query.
‘I mean, do you think he entered from his rooms at the moment of Mrs Sands’s coming, or was he waiting for her here in the study?’
Dr Sadler looked at him scornfully.
‘It surely matters little, but Dr Haslam could come or go at pleasure in his own house; and he had little difficulty in seeing Mrs Sands at any moment. He would have killed her in the parlour, in the presence of the whole world, having once resolved to do so. He made no attempt at concealment.’
‘But he fled.’
The lids of the young man drooped.
‘It is the habit of criminals to flee,’ he replied.
‘Have you learned to think of your benefactor in the light of a criminal?’
The eyes of the young man flashed, but he held his temper in check. I saw, however, that it was by an effort, and that he resented the question.
‘I shall always think of him with gratitude,’ he answered, ‘criminal or not.’
‘Did Dr Haslam speak to you?’
‘He said nothing, but looked unutterable things.’
‘I have thought it strange,’ observed Conners, musingly, and I fancied his manner assumed, ‘that the doctor should have escaped so readily from the house.’
The young man gave a whiff of disgust.
‘Who are here who would have presumed to stop him?’ he said. ‘No one knew of a crime.’
I thought the observation a trivial one myself, but my companion continued his questions.
‘Did the servants speak to Dr Haslam as he passed through the kitchen – did they not inquire of him the meaning of the gunshot they had heard?’
Dr Sadler hesitated. He fumbled with his handkerchief, which he had taken from his pocket, and stared vacantly at the floor.
‘It is difficult to recall all these details,’ he replied, ‘but not the one in question. I have thought it strange that the police did not make that inquiry. The truth is that Dr Haslam left the house unseen. The officers took it for granted that he left the house by the back stairway, because I said so; and I thought so until I found out differently. I did not fail to question the servants as to this.’
‘Did not the servants ask this question of their fellow, Gray, Doctor? What the murderer said, and how he acted, as he passed through the front?’
The eyes of the young man flashed viciously.
‘It is quite possible,’ he answered. ‘As I have said, it is difficult to recall these details.’
‘You appear to have attached some importance to this yourself,’ persisted Conners.
‘Of course,’ replied Dr Sadler. ‘It was natural that I should, since I found that I was mistaken in the manner in which my benefactor, as you designate him, made his escape.’
‘How did he escape?’ asked Conners.
The young man did not resent the question, and I listened with intense interest. I could not anticipate what was coming, and I expected little; but the facts were revealing themselves in strangely different form. I knew, of course, that this could matter little, but to me the whole subject was absorbing.
‘The police found every window bolted,’ said the doctor, speaking slowly, and choosing his words carefully. ‘As I stated to them that my father passed down the back stairway, they presumed it to be true, and that ended it. I thought it the truth myself until, as I have said, I learned differently from the servants. There was but one other mode of egress, since the windows were bolted, and that was by means of a trap in the attic roof. It is low to the eaves, and a ladder leads from the main structure to the back building. The descent from here to the yard is without difficulty. There is a trellis near, upon which vines grow. I investigated, and found that Dr Haslam had used this avenue of escape. The vines on the trellis were torn and pulled aside, and I discovered his slipper on the roof of the back building. It is here.’
He stepped to a closet and, taking the slipper from a shelf, exhibited it to us.
‘You did not think it necessary to correct the erroneous impression of the police?’ observed Conners.
‘No,’ returned Sadler, coolly. ‘It was entirely unimportant, and you must recollect that I was deeply attached to Dr Haslam. I preferred that it be thought that the deed was done in a moment of aberration of mind, as I in truth believe.’
‘Very singular,’ muttered Conners, ‘when, as you say. Dr Haslam was master in his own house and could have left by means of the front door – if he had liked.’
‘No,’ said Sadler, with a smile; ‘not when you have thought about the matter. Dr Haslam may have heard the entry of the officers, and – criminals become frightened.’
‘Did Dr Haslam look frightened when you saw him?’
‘No,’ replied the young man, reflectively. ‘But I found the slipper where I stated, and he left by means of the roof. Come, I will show you.’
He led us to the attic, and as he ascended the stairs he furtively touched his eyes with his handkerchief. It was done with an obvious effort at concealment, but I was conscious of the fact that he wished us to believe that he was affected.
‘Here is the door through which he passed,’ he said, indicating a trap, before which we paused. ‘I found it unlatched on the following morning, and took pains to close it.’
Conners turned away almost instantly.
‘This is unimportant,’ he said. ‘Let us go into the yard and inspect the trellis. Dr Sadler can also point out to us the position of the trap-door from the outside.’
The young man led the way downstairs with evident alacrity, and, passing through the rear of the house, we came to the paved space of yard between the back entrance and the stable. Here the doctor eagerly indicated the trellis and pointed to the mark of the opening in the roof.
‘An obvious way of escape,’ was the comment of Conners. ‘I think the papers stated that Dr Haslam had been ailing for a week prior to this matter. Was that correct?’
‘Quite correct,’ replied Dr Sadler. ‘He ventured downstairs, however, two days before the killing, coming with me to inspect some paving which had been completed in the stable.’
‘Was Mrs Sands with you?’
‘Yes,’ replied the young man, a malevolent light in his eyes; ‘if the information is of importance to you – Mrs Sands was with us.’
We entered the stable, pausing at the threshold to note a sheet of cemented floor stretching to the farther wall. A great block of white stone lay near the entrance, and about it were some half-filled barrels of lime or composition. A pile of concrete was upon the dirt f
loor of an adjacent room, and thrown upon it was a huge box. I judged it to be probably ten feet long, with a depth of two or three feet, and perhaps as many wide. All the surroundings appeared to me to be without significance, but Conners tapped the pavement sharply with his heel.
‘The police, in their search, would scarcely neglect to remember that a man who has disappeared as completely as has your adopted father might safely lie under so excellent a covering,’ he said, blandly.
Dr Sadler smiled.
‘They did not forget it,’ he replied. ‘They sounded every foot of space here, in spite of the fact that he was seen by every person in the house a day after the job was completed and the workmen gone. Dr Haslam’s visit to the stable was to inspect the work. Why the police did this was a mystery to me; and it remains so, since they have not explained. Having killed himself, Dr Haslam could hardly bury his own body under a bed of cement that was set and hard while he was yet in the flesh. We should have been glad enough to have found him to bury him in a Christian manner, to say nothing of obtaining peace of mind regarding his fate.’
‘Of course,’ said Conners. ‘What is this stone?’
The doctor coughed slightly as Conners kicked a huge block of granite with his foot, and instantly my friend brought him under his keen eyes; they dwelled for a burning moment upon a face that flushed and then paled, while the green orbs that answered his danced shiftily.
‘A stone brought to repair a broken gate-post outside. It was a trifle large and white, by comparison with the fellow it was to serve. Dr Haslam concluded to use it as a carriage-block in front and provide another. There is nothing under it, you may be sure,’ and the young man paused to laugh softly. ‘As ponderous as it is, the police turned it over, because they gave attention to every incident which last had Dr Haslam’s attention. But the gate-post was not repaired until after the killing of Mrs Sands and the disappearance of my adopted father.’
American Sherlocks Page 16
